I'm no poet, yet with your smile
words rhyme with my heartbeat.
I'm no philanthropist, yet with your loving gaze
everything I have to the world I'd willingly give.
I need no magic nor pixie dust nor touch of witchcraft.
Your lips alone are the sweetest enchantments I have.
Indeed, I am a sinner; a crack in the mirror.
I am nothing but an imperfection
that stands out in the sea of imperfections.
Yet the mere touch of your lips, darling, is my redemption.
For such kisses breathe life
to the hero gasping deep inside.
Because my love, when I'm with you,
I could conquer the parts of the world
only conquered by few.
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YOU ARE READING
Spilled Ink
PoetryA piece of soul in ink, and unto the paper it spilled. A collection of thoughts that rhyme from a wandering mind.
